


The Sun, The Moon, and The Stars

by reginarex



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 16:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15147557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginarex/pseuds/reginarex
Summary: In the court of Kiespa, only the strong survive.Alexandra knows that better than anybody else: from childhood, she has been fighting to prove herself worthy of the throne. Now, with the crown in her sights and enemies encroaching from every side, Alexandra only has to survive  one more obstacle: the Trials.In a nation where magic is explicitly forbidden, these Trials are Louise's only chance to reclaim the magic that is her birthright. Though she has her eyes fixed on a spot on the Council, her treacherous heart whispers of another desire: to get revenge on the royal family who ripped her family from her.Ilya, too, has felt the sting of the Crown's draconian laws: living in Southern Kingdom where mages are tortured and sent to labor camps, he chafes against the bounds keeping his magic a secret. Swept up in the passionate fight to free Kiespa, and himself, Ilya struggles to keep himself from losing everything.As the Trials wear on, their stories begin to intermingle until they are tangled in a web of politics, love, and dangerous intrigue. Desires and ambitions blur as the three grow closer, until nobody is sure of what they want anymore- a dangerous game to play in a place like Kiespa.





	1. The Stars

It had been a long time since Louise had last prayed to the immortal powers, but, on that fateful day, she found herself looking to the sky and pleading with a force she no longer believed in. It was a windy day in November when a frenzy of wind whipped through the air, sending a hurricane of dead leaves hurtling through the crowded cobblestone streets: somehow, through the sudden roar and the murmurs of discomfort from the crowd, Louise could hear the song of magic. The feeling jolted through her like electricity, sending every nerve alive with anticipation, the dull grey bracelet encircling her wrist humming with warning. She closed her eyes, teeth grit, and prayed that she was making the right choice. 

The man who stepped out of the carriage- the man from whom the intoxicating magic was emanating- screamed of danger. He was wearing the ceremonial robes of a Witch: draped entirely in black save for crisp white lines, his sharp form completely devoid of colour save the worn bronze pocket watch chain that hung from his pocket. He surveyed the crowd in front of him with frozen eyes as dark as the night, but his body was entirely too still, as though it were caught in a single moment in time. From her place, buried in the crowd, Louise felt her eyes connect with his and a shiver ran through her body as the feeling came back, infinitely stronger. 

Then, as quickly as the moment had came, it passed: the man spoke, his voice amplified through some form of magic. The crowd immediately silenced. “It would save us both a great deal of time,” he boomed, his voice somehow remaining quietly dangerous in its amplified state, “if you just returned home and gave up on this fruitless endeavour.”

The crowd began to shift with discomfort again: some nervous chuckles even ran through the air, but, in all, they remained silent, hanging onto every word. Even without the air that this man gave off, any magic user, especially the Council of Witches, was a fascination. Nobody within the borders of the country, save them, had free reign over their own power and a glimpse of one, no matter how brief, was always met with intense interest.

With displeasure, the man looked out to those who laughed. "Believe me when I say I would not kid about a matter like this. Only those of you who are truly foolish enough to attempt something impossible may have a shot, but I imagine that those of you are few and far between. The Trials are a challenging affair, true, but the dangers and tribulations you face will not be from them. All of you who are here believe that you have a chance to serve Princess Alexandra, that you have a chance of surviving the Kiespan court. I am here to tell you, now, that you do not. If you don’t get killed on your very first day, then it would be a miracle.”

The man’s eyes bore into hers once again, daring her to look away. Her heart was beating violently, as though the electricity palpable in the air was settling in her veins, coursing to her heart. There was no longer any laughter, no longer any whispers. The discomfort in the air grew until it hung like another cloud on that grey day. With quiet mutters between them, some of the people gathered, mostly those dressed in decadence, parted. Louise, along with a great majority of the crowd, stayed. The man raised an eyebrow, a feral smile curling at his lips. He was dangerous, she could easily tell, but there was something about him that pulled her in, that grounded her, even when every instinct screamed at her to leave. 

"If I didn't frighten you off with that speech, then you must all be truly insane. Good. Without that, you will not survive." His tone suddenly shifted, becoming cold and businesslike. “Now, if you would form several neat orderly lines behind the markings, we can begin with the Test.”

Without pausing to see if they had followed his instructions, he closed his eyes, his arms raised, palms facing upwards. The air began to shift and shimmer, the energy around them spiking dramatically. Before their eyes, his form began to shake and quiver, multiplying itself with frightening unison. When it stilled again, there were a multitude of copies of the Witch: countless pairs of the same lethal eyes blinking at them with indifference, eyebrows raised in impatience. They spoke all at once, “Well? What are you waiting for?”

Without thinking, Louise moved forwards, almost as though drawn by his force, but it seemed to have the opposite effect on the breathless writhing crowd that retreated a step backwards, leaving her at the front of the line, face to face with a copy of the man. He remained cold and impassive, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Name?”

“Louise F-Frost.” Even after all these years, the lie still tasted bitter on her lips. 

“Give me your hand.” He commanded, holding out a gloved hand expectantly. 

Louise would have guessed that he was made of ice, but, when he took her wrist in his, she could feel the palpable heat radiating off of his skin, even beneath the leather surface of the glove. He frowned with concentration as he traced the silver bracelet- handcuffs, meant to suppress her powers- wrapped around her wrist and, with a twist, removed them. 

The result was instantaneous.

Louise gasped in pain as icy agony flowed through her, sending her stumbling to her knees. Her muscles convulsed as electrical currents of magical energy, once contained in that one piece of metal that bound her powers, coursed through her body again. She was at once frozen and on fire, the aftershocks of the return of her power eliciting screams from her throat that echoes hollowly, only drowned out by the roaring of her blood. It was painful- immensely- but it was also rawly familiar. The gaping wound where the magic had been carved out of her was still pulsing almost a decade later. The overwhelming hunger to expel the energy that had been pent up- to explode- it was dizzying. When she straightened, magical energy crackled with every movement, every breath. Now that the pain had dissipated, now that her body had accepted its rightful power, an eager smile, desperate to release years of pent-up energy, spread across her face. 

“Not so fast.” The other mage advised, taking her hand again. “I’ll need a sample of your blood before we can begin with the testing.”

Her blood ran cold, and it wasn't only from her ice powers. This. This was the moment that she had feared, the moment that had almost kept her locked up at home, too paralyzed with fear to attempt to reclaim her birthright. Surely, if he found out the truth about her parentage, if he found out that the notorious Duke Crawford was her father, she would not only be barred from entering the Trials, but sentenced to death as well.

He must have taken her reluctance for fear, because he sighed with impatience, but softened his voice. “This will be the easiest and most painless part of the procedure,” he informed her, hand still held out in expectation. With a deep breath, she laid her wrist, her treacherous blood, against his again. 

With an expert motion of an ornate blade, he drew a steady stream of crimson liquid, which, with a gesture of his hand, curled in the air, forming spirals that were almost artistic. As he examined its movement, his brows furrowed and his expression darkened. Louise’s heart sped up and she considered taking off- wrenching her hand away and disappearing, running away like she had before- when he asked, “Half-Alverdinan?”, with a slightly bitter sneer. 

Realization washed over her. "Is my ethnicity a problem, sir? I was under the impression that anybody with Kiespan blood could compete." She raised her chin in an attempt to stare him down: true, there was no love lost between the two countries, especially after Kiespa annexed Alverdine several years prior, but she couldn't help the wave of relief that washed over her. "Besides," she added apprehensively, "Isn't the princess herself half-Alverdinian?"

For a moment, the other mage regarded her with a strange stare, as if perturbed that she would even mention that, before his brows drew close together and a small sigh escaped his lips. He looked vaguely as though he was torn between amusement and irritation. "Very well, Miss Frost. I have no problem with you, but you will find that not everybody is as kind as me."

Kind? Sure.

He looked at her drily, as though he could read her thoughts. The possibility crossed her mind horrifyingly, and she realized that it was a distinct possibility. After all, barring the monarch, very few were aware of the specific 'niche' of the Witches. The man in front of her could have been reading her thoughts the whole time, and she would remain unaware. Louise shuddered at the thought. Watching her with a roll of his eyes, he shook his head: "Shall we begin, then?"

Louise, filled simultaneously with the relief that she hadn’t been caught and the desperation to release the caged magic, nodded eagerly.

In response, he smirked. Before Louise could blink, he snapped his fingers and she was flung back violently, skidding against the rough cobblestones as she barely managed to stay on her feet for a second before crashing down onto the stones. Before her, he was standing as coolly as ever, examining her like a predator stalking its prey. She scrambled to stand upright. Anticipation gave way to fear. As he gestured rapidly, the air grew unbearably hot. Fire roared towards her, too fast to halt. She raised a hand in futility, but closed her eyes and prepared for the searing pain. 

It never came. 

When she opened her eyes, her magic had burst out of her outstretched hand, cocooning her in a forcefield of frozen energy what the fire couldn't penetrate. The flames died away and the other mage looked at her with begrudging surprise in his eyes. _If he thought I couldn't block it, why would he try to hit me like that?_ She thought indignantly, before he spoke again. 

"Very good, Miss Frost. I wonder, though, if you can keep it up."  
He flicked his wrist, and a crackle filled the air. It took Louise a fraction of a second to register the electricity bursting in the air, sending her hair standing on end, but that was all it took. She tried to recreate the shield that had protected her from the flames, but they were no deterrent to the blaze of lightning. As soon as they slammed into her, she screamed in agony. Weightless for a second, suspended in the air, Louise crashed back to the ground painfully, every muscle in her supercharged with the strength of the electric current. 

She was trembling as she tried to get up, but found that she was too weak to. The other mage advanced on her, his eyes blazing. The second round of lightning burst from his fingers; Louise slammed her hand into the ground- a wall of ice shot from the ground, only to splinter a second later as the electricity struck it. The shards of ice rained down on her, and, somehow, she knew that there was no way she could recreate that effect. A rational part of her whispered that it was just a test- there was no way he was really going to kill her, but sheer panic silenced that voice. She closed her eyes, her teeth grit: she was not going to surrender; she was going to die here, at the hands of a serene madman. 

The energy in the air spiked. The Witch cast his spell. Louise’s instincts kicked in- she lifted a trembling hand, knowing it was futile. She braced herself for the impact- for the inevitable cessation of her life. That fruitless power sprung from her fingers. Time slowed to a crawl. Louise dared to open her eyes after a few seconds. 

The Witch blinked in surprise, a jagged javelin of ice stopped mid air merely an inch from his eyes. He snapped his fingers and it disappeared into a puddle of water. With pensieve calculation, he brushed non-existent droplets away from his cloak, and studied her with interest. Louise bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, waiting for retaliation, but, instead, he offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet.

“You have absolutely no semblance of a proper strategy, nor any finesse. Were this a real fight, you would have been dead several time over. I fear the day you meet a real threat.” He lectured sternly, but, after a pause, added, “However, you have raw power and good instinct. No matter the result today, know that you have impressed me.”

He nodded curtly, dismissing her back into the crowd. Countless eyes bore into her, as each person in the vicinity watched with interest, only averting their eyes when they realized Louise was staring back into him. _Apparently_ , Louise thought with bitterness, rubbing her sore shoulder, _he hadn’t tried to kill anybody else._

Despite her irritation and soreness, however, she couldn’t help but feel giddy as his last words repeated in her head. _You have impressed me._ Perhaps there was a chance for her, after all. She watched with some degree of interest as the testing continued. Though he didn’t try to test anybody else in the same manner, after watching her, the rest of the mages were evidently on edge, their impatient magic responding to their nerves. By the time the third fire mage lit his cloak on fire, his jaw was wound so tightly that Louise feared he was about to strike something. Her mind and eyes kept flitting back to the man, no matter how much she tried to look away. It wasn't exactly difficult: after all, there were numerous copies of him, no matter where she looked. Recalling the buzz of the lightning, and the searing heat of the flames, she wondered briefly what his niche was. She had never seen anybody weave so seamlessly through different forms of magic before, though she had limited experience to draw from. He must have come from some sort of magic stronger than either. As she gazed at him, she marveled at it, and at her own survival. Perhaps he was right. Maybe she was really insane. 

Finally, after what seemed like hours, he dismissed his last candidate, brushing the ash out of his hair with an irritated flick of his wrist. He raised his hands again, and the copies of him flickered and died away, until there was only the original- the one that had tested Louise. As he stepped before them, the crowd once again quieted. "I am extremely disappointed." Somehow, Louise wasn't surprised. Still, her heartbeat sped up as he continued. 

"When I arrived here today, I expected nearly nothing out of you. Somehow, you have still managed to disappoint me." He glared out into the audience, the majority of which recoiled from his gaze. "Therefore, instead of inviting five candidates from Lyrikos, as per the competition regulations, I will only be bringing 4." 

The crowd gasped. Somebody in the back started to cry. 

"There were only four of you here today that managed to pass my exceedingly low expectations. Therefore, you will be the only four to accompany me back to Rossenay. If I do not call your name, you are dismissed, and I ask that you leave as quickly and as quietly as possible. Any disruption will not be tolerated. Now, the four that will accompany me:" 

"Patrice Sinclair" 

"Katarina Hentosz" 

"Henri Varrick" 

Louise held her breath as he looked down and sighed. "Louise Frost." The world closed in on her as she registered his words. Her eyes met his dark gaze and there was nothing left in the world but the two of them and those fateful words. She made it: this was her chance to keep the magic flowing in her blood- 

-and to get revenge, whispered a little part of her. 

She shook off that feeling for the time being. Mind reader or no, it was still dangerous to think such treacherous thoughts in front of a man who was literally sworn to protect the royal family. Now that it was just the four of them gathered in front of the Witch, his glare was more concentrated between them. " As I hope you are aware, my name is Lukas Rykiel, Duke of Crawford and Second Witch to King Sergei. I will be your guide for the coming trials, which means that if you fail, you will not have to concern yourself with the unhappiness of the royal family- you will have to deal with _mine_. It is part of my sworn duty to help and guide you to the best of my abilities. I sincerely hope that all of you succeed, but, nonetheless, it is also my responsibility when you fail. It would be in your best interests not to fail."

He paused ominously and let his words sink in. "You will be brought to Rossenay from Lyrikos at dusk tomorrow evening. If you fail to arrive, then you will automatically be taken out of the running and our pathetic numbers will dwindle even further. For the time being, however, you may return home. Everything I have to tell you about the Trials will be delivered once we get to the Capitol. For now, go home and rest. You will undoubtedly need it."

Louise, alongside the other three, turned to leave, but she was stopped by a hand resting on her cloak. She turned, perturbed, to see Duke Rykiel staring at his own hand as if it had moved by itself, without his consent. "Your grace?" She tilted her head in question. 

When he spoke, his voice was low. "Be careful." He said, voice measured, looking as though he wanted to say more. He opened and closed his mouth for a second, but firmly affixed his shoulders and turned away. "Goodnight, Miss Frost. I will see you tomorrow." 

While Louise stood in the oncoming snow, he disappeared into the thick flakes, the sound of horse hooves barely audible through the snowfall. With confusion, and no small amount of unease at that cryptic warning, Louise, too, turned away and began her trek home. Though the wind was brutal and the snow fell faster as the hour passed, the magic energy flowing inside her veins kept her warm enough to think, and she finally allowed her thoughts to turn to the one thing that had been pressing on her consciousness: her parents. 

Her memory of them, her father in particular, was increasingly hazy. She knew her mother was Alverdinian and a mage, and her father was Kiespan and a noble, and that they were both rebels, killed for their involvement against King Sergei. She knew that it was that bloody usurper who had personally killed her father, and it was his men who had killed her mother. For years, she had longed for the chance to get close enough to the blood king, to take from him what he stole from her, and so many others. But, with the announcement that he was stepping down from illness, that victory would feel hollow.

There was somebody else though. Another Vasilyev, styled in the image of her father: Alexandra Vasilyeva. Crown Princess. As ruthless and sharp as her father. Perhaps it was not Sergei that Louise needed to kill to avenge her parents. Perhaps it was Alexandra. 

With a start, Louise shook herself out of her dark thoughts. 

The sky above had darkened to a purple hue. The clouds had parted, and the light of a million stars lit up the sky. With a pang of loneliness, Louise found herself perched on the edge of her balcony, staring out into the millions of diamonds embedded into the sky. A vague memory drifted to her mind, of her mother telling her about the way that stars died. 

"When a star dies", she used to say to Louise, "a mage is born. The magic we have is borrowed from the stars themselves, and when we die, we go back to the sky in the form of a star. So, when you look up at the night sky, remember all of the mages that came before you, and honour them." 

Now, staring into that endless abyss of dead mages, Louise wondered if her parents were looking down on her. Would they be proud of her for making it past the preliminary trials, or would they be worried about her stumbling straight into a snake's den? Would they be happy that their daughter survived, or disappointed that she had not carried on their fight? And- she shuddered at the thought that reentered her mind, the one that had repeated endlessly since she first entertained the notion of revenge- would they be happy to see her avenge them, or horrified at what she had become? She looked up, searching, as she always did, for answers.

The immortal powers failed to answer. 


	2. The Moon

Nighttime had fallen on the southern city of Mazolsin, and there was nothing guiding Ilya Orlov down the streets but the light of the moon and his knowledge of the city. The rare bout of snow had struck that night, coating his dark hair with a layer of white. His father had offered him the use of the carriage, but Ilya had turned him down, citing a desire to walk. Now, with the unusually cold November wind biting into his coat and sapping all feeling from his fingers, he was regretting it. 

An eerie howling rolled through the empty- perhaps it was merely the wind, but for a second the snowflakes blew upwards and Ilya was sure that a ghost was pursuing him. He quickened his pace, tightening his jacket as much as he could. In the distance, he could make out the lights of the city core, which ushered him on in his journey. A serene forest, still clinging to their leaves, hid the sprawling estate that he had grown up on. Gentle snowfall and moonbeams drifted from the rafters that the trees formed.

Between his extravagant isolate country home and the brilliant warm lights of the city, however, were the grim ash-covered chain link fences of the camp. It was a sight that most Southern Kiespans had grown used to: after all, camps like this sprung up everywhere in the Southern Kingdom. The law of the land was one that restricted the use of magic, but in the south, the regulations were particularly harsh. Any act of magic, or a crime committed by a registered mage, resulted in imprisonment. No exceptions. Though not technically supported by the government at Rossenay, the royal family remained silent about the issue: after all, if it kept Prince Peter pacified, and the mage population down, what did it matter to them?

When he reached the first tangle of dull metal forming sharp teeth, he swore the wind grew stronger. Pinpricks of light were visible from the squat ashen buildings rising low above the ground, but otherwise the entire area was grey, the white puffs of snow darkened as they approached the ground. Somewhere in that tangle of darkness, a faint high pitched crying of a child carried on the wind. 

Then, a loud bang reverberated through the air and Ilya cringed backwards, eyes wide. 

He had long become accustomed to the prison camp encircling the central city of their region. Beyond agriculture and textiles, guard work was one of the largest industries in their region. Some of his father’s private guards were even stationed there on their days off- men who had been so kind to the young count had gone on to brutalize people just like him in the matter of days. It was a part of life in Mazolsin, but, after more than two decades, Ilya still couldn’t reconcile himself with that fact, as he watched the grey become awash with red as loud rough yelling and the barking of dogs filled the air all of a sudden. 

Uncomfortably, he was reminded of the discreet thin gold chain draped around his neck. With a heavy heart, he succumbed to cowardice and swallowed his anger, looking downwards as he picked up his pace. 

Before long, he was within the city limits, safe from the painful noises on the wind. The comforting warm light was unable to decimate the bitter feeling that had taken root in his stomach, but it did wash off the disgust and grime that had settled onto the surface. The townsfolk, although eager to escape the cold, paused to greet him with friendliness, especially as he neared the town square. It was the picturesque little town, full of charming people who had long since learned to navigate around the faint sounds of human suffering. With the exception of a brief interlude spent in the Capitol, Ilya had spent the entirety of his life in this small city, and he couldn't bring himself to hate it for its complicit silence. How could he, when he himself was also guilty of it?

Going back to Rossenay, however, brought a bitter taste to his mouth, especially at the thought of meeting the Crown Princess again. 

“Count Orlov!” Out of the window of a wooden lodge, a spry and energetic woman with greying hair called out to him with disapproval. “Come inside and have a cup of chocolate before you freeze to death, you fool boy.”

Shaken out of his dark thoughts, Ilya’s lips twitched in amusement, but he obeyed, entering through the busy store that the matriarch ran, attached to their house by a rickety wooden door. He had known the store owner for as long as he could remember, her daughter working for his family before she passed away. Mrs. Kennedy, kind as she could be, used to strike fear into his heart when she watched over him, and that ability had not faded with time. She clucked her tongue at him when the snowflakes rained down on the floor, ushering him into the living room. “You’re a fool,” she told him strictly, “What were you thinking, wandering into the blizzard like that?”

Ilya looked out the window. The snow, now much weaker, could barely be considered a flurry. “Mrs. Kennedy-”

“Oh, don’t you Mrs. Kennedy me boy. You may be a Count, but I’ve known you since you were about this high-” She paused to gesture, forcing his coat off. “And let me tell you, I’ll still give you a smack if you don’t listen to me. God help us all if you catch a cold.” She muttered, disappearing into the kitchen, reentering with two cups of hot chocolate, which Ilya accepted with gratefulness, feeling sensations return to his fingers again. 

“Now,” she settled down across from him, “What brings you into town so late at night?”

A blush tinged Ilya’s face, mercifully hidden by the redness caused by the nipping frost. “I, ah, I am being sent to the capital for the social season in my father’s place. He doesn’t want to be away from mother until the baby is born.”

She raised an eyebrow at the statement that he was returning to the Capitol, but mercifully said nothing. "You've forgot to buy a token for the royal family, haven't you?" She shook her head with fond disapproval, setting down her cup and unlocking a hidden compartment of the bookcase. “You’ve been the same since you were young. Always have your head in the clouds, don’t you? Anyways, I’ve got something, if you want to take a look. A strange woman came by to sell it, didn’t say where she got it from, but it’s worth more than I bought it for.” 

Ilya wrapped his fingers around the silver chain, his eyes drawn to the rich sapphire blue of the delicate pendant. Something caught his attention and he squinted it, barely able to make out fanciful writing embedded beneath the gemstone. _Post tenebras, ad astra._ “What does it mean?” He asked, pronouncing each syllable with delicate care.

Mrs. Kennedy shrugged. “An old phrase of sorts- that’s what the seller said. Something about stars. Didn’t tell me exactly what it meant, though. I checked with the appraiser this afternoon, and it’s an excellent quality sapphire- good enough for a Crown Princess, even. Do you want it?”

The words carve under the blue jewel reverberated in his mind. He couldn't quite place his finger on it, but something seemed familiar about the words, as if he had heard them somewhere else before. There was some little voice in his mind that made him hesitant to offer it up as a gift- the words inscribed onto it felt too important to give up, but a look at the grandfather clock reminded him of the hour. With resignation, he agreed. "I will. 

Oblivious to his thoughtful consideration, Mrs. Kennedy replied. “Good.” She snatched it from his hands, getting up again. Ilya stared blankly where it had been, feeling a tingling sense of emptiness. “I’ll wrap it up and send it to the manor by tomorrow morning.”

The doorbell chimed from the other building, signifying the entrance of another patron. Mrs. Kennedy sighed, “I better be getting back to work, then. Stop by when you get back from Rossenay, will you? It’s been too long since I’ve seen you without having to rush all over the place.” 

After he thanked her for her hospitality, Mrs. Kennedy released Ilya with the promise that he would come back to visit, leaving him to turn back into the bitter cold with reluctance. The warmth that settled over his skin wrapped around him like a blanket, sheltering him for awhile from the icy wind, but by the time he reached the next street over, he was shivering again. Through the sludge, he trudged, his happy mood dissipating slowly with his warmth, as he approached the prison camp once again.

His face was burrowed as far down as it would go in an attempt to shield it from the howling wind, so he neither heard nor saw the guards until he stepped in the blood. Jerking his head up, he strained to see the dark trail that had carved itself into the snow, barely able to hear the piteous crying. Ilya rushed forwards, only to halt abruptly at the sight of two towering guards clad in black. The one on the left raised his arm, a baton clenched furiously in it. 

Then, Ilya saw the child. 

He was a young boy, barely older than Ilya’s youngest brother, though his starved frame made him seem much smaller. Curled on the ground, he was barely moving, blood pulsing from the painful gash on his forehead. Before he could even register what he had seen, Ilya saw red. He stepped forwards forcefully, his hand grabbing the wrist of the guard before he could strike the boy again. 

“Gentlemen,” he sneered icily, feeling a mix of warm relief and cold dread when he realized that he didn’t recognize either of them, “What are you doing?”

Both of them whirled on him, a nasty grin spreading in unison. Ilya’s resolved faded until the boy stirred, his eyes, one bruised, watching Ilya with a mixture of fascination, terror, and awe. “What’s it to you, kid?” The man on the left, face riddled with scars, grinned grotesquely. 

“Well,” Ilya responded, his voice icy enough to match the air around them, “I am Count Orlov’s heir. Anything that occurs here is my business, especially bullies who feel the need to brutalize children.”

If it was possible, the man’s sneer grew even uglier. “Mind your own business, then, _my lord_. Your daddy isn’t here to protect you now, eh? This kid here tried to run- one of those magic lot, you know how they are. Now, run along, and let the adults deal with the dirty work, kid.”

With a sigh, Ilya drew off his dark leather gloves, letting them fall with a soft crunch into the snow. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He said darkly. Reaching into his jacket, where twin hilts rested around his belt, he didn't break eye contact with the two men who were looking at him with unease mixed with scorn. Before they could move, there was the smooth sound of metal being drawn. With a fluid motion, Ilya spun around, his coat whipping around him as he released the blades with deadly precision, embedding themselves into the guards' shoulders. With a grunt of pain, both men dropped their batons, the blood-stained silver dropping into the soft snow with barely a muffled thump. Seizing the opportunity, Ilya rushed forward, reaching out to the child. Though the young boy recoiled when he approached, Ilya draped the black wool of his jacket around his shivering frame, guiding the boy up. With a cautious glance at the two men, mercifully still distracted, he looked the child in the eye.

“Run. Go to Mrs. Kennedy’s shop on Main Street and tell her Ilya Orlov sent you. Here, take this.” He handed the boy a golden token with his coat of arms stamped on one side. “Go!”

The child obeyed, scrambling to his feet and darting through the alleyway with astonishing speed, even as blood streamed out behind him. Before Ilya could even breathe, he felt a cold shadow rise over him. "Well, at that. You cheated us out of our catch. I think we'll take you instead, sympathizer," The man spat.

Ilya rose to his feet with a cocky smirk, though a rush of cold fear was settling inside of him. He realized that they now had the knives he threw at them- so, perhaps that wasn't the best of plans, but he had been caught up in the heat of the moment. Grasping one of the batons the men had dropped, he twirled it around with nonchalant ease. "Ready for round two, then?" 

He stepped back as the first man swung his knife in response. "Too slow." He taunted, parrying the second man with a screech of metal on metal. "You'll find that I'm not as easy to hurt as a child." 

Silently, he thanked his father for the years of swordfighting and self defense lessons he was forced to attend, when he wanted to ride instead. With an elegant twist, he swept the bar of the baton into the neck of the first man, who, though too late to block his hit, sliced into Ilya's wrist before choking and falling to his knees. Ilya grimaced, but, with the first man down, turned to the second. "Well? Let's get this over with." Though he looked uncertain, the other man bared his teeth and stormed towards him. With the few seconds he had, Ilya took a deep breath and suppressed the pain that was rolling over him from the blood dripping down his fingertips. No longer concerned with finesse, he swung the baton as hard as he could. With a sense of grim satisfaction, Ilya watched as it made contact with the man's hands. The guard shouted in pain, dropping the blade and charged at Ilya. With an irritated noise, he sidestepped him, catching his fist in his hand and squeezed down, watching with detached interest as the man's joints popped with a horrifying noise. The guard, a pained scream caught in his throat, fell to the ground. Before he fell, though, he slammed his skull into Ilya with all the strength he had. 

The wind knocked out of him, Ilya gasped, leaning on the wall for support as he tried to right himself again. While the second man was down, he thought he would have a few minutes before he needed to concoct a plan to get himself out of this mess. 

He barely had a second. Still wheezing in pain, the first guard dragged himself to his feet and, while Ilya was distracted, drew the forgotten baton back. Ilya only turned around with a millisecond to spare and, without any time to think, raised his arm. The baton made contact with his unprotected arm with a sickening crunching noise. 

The pain set in immediately. 

A burning sensation shot up his arm as he felt a sickening crack echo in his entire body. A sharp pain spread through his mind as he felt part of his arm rip open with the force of the blow and, without looking down, he knew his arm was twisted in a disturbing direction. All of his emotions- disgust at the guards, relief at getting the child to safety- disappeared, merging into an all-consuming sensation of fear. 

He could barely breathe as adrenaline soared through his veins. His heart beat so quickly that he was sure it was going to burst before the men or his arm could kill him first. It muddled his mind, sent the pain shooting up with more intensity, until there was nothing but the agony and the fear. He was going to die, he thought, as the guard raised the baton again, a sick grin plastered over his face and blood gushing from his hand. 

His father was going to be so angry with him. His stepmother would probably cry for hours. His siblings- Oh God. He couldn’t die here. His siblings would miss him too much. Just the image of them, dressed in black, standing over his grave- Of little Anton being forced into the role of the next Count Orlov- Of- Of- He couldn’t breathe. With a superhuman effort, Ilya managed to roll out of the way, crying in pain as he landed on his broken arm. He didn’t even realize that he had been sobbing until he felt the warmth of his tears mingle with the blood on the ground. 

He staggered upwards as the guard came at him again. His head managed to meet his assailant’s chin. Black spots were starting to appear in his vision. He could see the world spinning. He couldn’t pass out now. Blindly, he struck out again with his good arm, meeting the nose of the guard, who reacted with surprise, lurching backwards. He couldn’t take it anymore.

With a thud, he fell onto the ground, the impact barely registering in his pain muddled mind. This was it, then. Ilya Orlov was going to die here, at the hands of this brainless guard. At least, he thought, the little boy was going to be fine. At least his death wouldn’t be in vain. He had to hold onto that. It would be a relief to be free from this unbearable pain. He was somewhere on the edge of consciousness, he could feel it. Maybe he would black out before the man could even strike him. 

At the end of the alleyway, he could make out a figure, blurred by the ceaseless snow. Perhaps it was the ghost again. He heard two shots in rapid succession, felt a weight and warmth fall onto him, and knew nothing more. 

He woke up with a start. The first thing that registered was that it must have been only a dream- that he was still safely at home. Then, he moved slightly and the pain set in again. His arm was resting atop his chest, bound in a sling. Although it was still throbbing, the dull agony was far more bearable than before and he found himself able to think clearly again, despite the ache in his head that must have come from the force with which he hit the cobblestone street.

Clearly, he was not at home. There was a woman sitting on the edge of the bed he was lying on, her eyes twinkling through the white mask strangely perched on her face. She smiled when she saw his eyes open, holding out ice for his head. He tookit gratefully, hissing with pain when it made contact with his inflamed skin. "Powers above, you're an idiot."

Through the pain, Ilya managed a weak smile. “So I’ve heard.”

“Well, at the very least, Theo made it to Mrs. Kennedy’s. You’ll be happy to know that he’s perfectly fine, if a little traumatized. You-” She hesitated, “You saved his life. Those men were going to kill him, from the looks of it. That’s something not many people would do, especially not for a mage.”

“It’s what anybody would have done-” He protested feebly.

She cut him off. “No. It’s what another mage would have done.”

His blood froze in his veins at her words. Everything disappeared until it was just her piercing gaze bearing into his soul, her dark eyes drawing him in until he found himself unable to fight the truth. He forced himself to remain calm, to not give away his deadliest secret. “I beg your pardon?” His laugh sounded thin and fake, even to himself, ringing through the room in a mocking echo.

“I saw the necklace.” She gestured to the gold glinting on his shirtless chest, “A suppression chain, isn’t it? You don’t see many of those anymore.” 

“No!” He protested adamantly, attempting to sit up properly. She sighed, pushing him back down when he started to splutter violently with coughs. “It was a gift from my mother, before she died.”

The masked woman looked at him with a sympathetic gaze, her hand resting on his unharmed arm in comfort as she said, “Bullshit. I know Lady Goldstein, Ilya. She would be disappointed to hear her son tell such a boldfaced lie. And so poorly too.”

"Well." He muttered, "I can't exactly think straight right now."A hysterical laugh was building in his chest. Years and years had passed by since he last revealed his secret to anybody else- a jeweler who had been on his deathbed, the only one they could trust with the task of creating the necklace. Not even his beloved stepmother or siblings knew of the magic that coursed under his skin, the magic that was foreign to him. Until this woman, who somehow managed to see through the image that he built up over his life, who sent his entire existence crashing down with a single word. How had she known? There were almost no people who knew how a suppression chain worked, much less what one as discreet as his looked like.

And suddenly, Ilya couldn’t find it within himself to lie anymore. “You’re right. I’m a mage. I have been since I was born, but I haven’t used magic since I was five years old.”

He could still recall a vestige of how it felt to use his power- his birthright. Somewhere in his mind’s eye, he could see the little boy running down the long halls of his family home, sparks of colour blooming from his fingers as he giggled with delight. He drew a sharp breath as he recalled his father stepping out of his office, colour draining from his face. The weight of the thin necklace grew so great that he was helplessly dragged back onto the bed, closing his eyes in resignation. Would she use this secret to blackmail him? Or would she skip that step altogether and just turn him in?

To his surprise, the stranger hesitated. When she spoke, her voice was much more subdued. “I’m sorry. It’s not right-” She struggled to find the right words, running her hands through her curls, sending her mask tilting askew. Her fingers tapped on the wooden frame of the bed, eyes roaming determinedly in every direction but Ilya’s. Suddenly, as though she couldn’t bear sitting down anymore, she sprung up, heading towards the window. 

Confused, but somewhat assured that he was safe in her hands, Ilya tracked her movements with confused interest. “Where am I?”

She paused in her frantic pacing, turning her blue gaze back on him. “Ah, I apologize, I was so preoccupied that I didn’t bother with introductions. We are in my country home, almost an hour out of Mazolsin.”

Ilya almost pointed out that she still hadn’t introduced herself, when she turned to him again, her voice hushed despite the fact that there were no other people in the room. Her lithe frame leaned down with intensity, eyebrows drawing together as she studied him with fascination. “Ilya.” He didn’t bother asking how she knew his name. “You’re lucky, you know that? Not everybody can hide their powers like you. You saw what they did to Theo, because he was trying to get out of those camps. I’ve been- seen them, I mean. They aren’t treated like people there. Well, they aren’t people to the guards. Things are degenerating quickly in the Southern territories. Peter is going power mad, and they-” her lips twisted into an ugly sneer, "don't do anything about it."

Ilya’s heart was fluttering quickly again, the bitter feeling curled up in his stomach rearing up with a sharp jab. He was back on that moonlit night, flakes of ash grey snow falling on him, the howls of dogs ecstatic to hunt echoing behind him. He was standing in front of that little boy, beaten and bruised as he stared up to his captors with utter fear. He was in the prison camps, seeing the desolate grey slabs of stone that they called home, faces beaten and worn. He was reminded of how this was almost his fate and despised himself for feeling relieved that it was not. 

His emotions must have shone through because the mysterious woman finally leaned back, a feral smile curling at her lips. “Things need to change, Ilya, and we can do it together.” 

He was almost hesitant to say anything, to confirm what she was implying. Some of that confliction must have been written on his face, because she hastened to explain further, grasping his good hand with such frenzy that Ilya was briefly afraid that she was going to break it too. "Trust me, Ilya. There are some powerful people involved with this: you wouldn't believe me if I told you their names. There's a revolution brewing in Kiespa. You and I- we can change things here. For good. No more hiding in the shadows, allowing that bloody tyrant and his family control what we can do. This time, we won't fail." Her eyes lit up with fierce excitement, so brilliant that Ilya found himself drawn into it. 

But there was still some doubt whispering in his mind, in a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father's. _This time?_ "Why me?" 

Instead of answering, she looked out the window, her gaze suddenly distant. "I knew people who died for this cause. Brilliant, passionate people who were angry and repressed, who didn't have anyway to fight back. I don't want you to end up like them- not if you can do some good instead." 

And Ilya understood. He knew that feeling, of the helpless anger building up in his chest as he watched the apprehension in his father's eyes, as he felt to cool metal of the chain around his neck, as he watched the red light wash over the prison camp. The feeling rose up in him again, and he was unable to fight the fiery feeling in his core, the phantom space where his magic used to be. “I want to join.”

“I had a feeling that you might want to,” she said delightedly, a devlish grin spreading across her face, before she stopped herself, taking a seat on the bed. “For tonight, though, I called a carriage for you, so go home and rest. When you arrive at Rossenay tomorrow, come and find me after the Welcoming Ball. Fourth alleyway off of the Arvat Boulevard. There will be three white slashes, pointing downwards. Knock three times in rapid succession and somebody will let you in, if you show them this.”

She handed him a white handkerchief, embroidered with delicate blue flowers. Somewhere, Ilya felt as though he might have seen it before, but he accepted it without a word, putting it in his trouser pocket with apprehension, her words playing on a repeat in his mind as he tried desperately to ingrain them in his head. With slow stumbling motions he managed to dress and reach the carriage, wincing when his arm was jostled. 

“I’ll expect you tomorrow, then.” She said, watching him stumble into the carriage with awkward motions despite the hand the footman offered him. 

“Wait!” The carriage, which had just been moving, halted abruptly as Ilya looked out to the strange woman. “You never told me your name.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow with a coy smile that suggested to Ilya that she was perfectly aware of that fact. Her mask was still affixed to her face as she pondered in mock concentration. “Call me V.”

With that, she tapped the carriage and Ilya jerked forwards. His mind reeling, he allowed himself to relax, staring out the window with the events of the past night racing through his mind as his eyes wandered through the gleaming moonlight, broken only by a solitary female figure in the distance, growing smaller with every second.


	3. The Sun

Atop the arrogant bluffs that overlooked the crashing grey waves, the weak rays of sun beamed down on the city of glass and steel. Rossenay rose over the land like a cold industrial gemstone, beautiful, but impersonal, awash in the crimson light of the early morning. In this early hour, there were only a few souls who stirred in the city, caught hurrying from the nipping cold wind in the air from building to building. Only one person wasn't running from the weather: from the shining grey palace overlooking the city, Crown Princess Alexandra Vasilyeva was staring out into the distance, impassive to the cold despite her thin silver dress. The princess painted a picture both beautiful and terrible, as the light settled into her grey eyes, sending them awash with bloody light. Hunger etched itself across her expression as she reached out, as if she could grasp within her palm the endless universe that would one day belong to her. Like Icarus, she fancied that, if she leapt off of the balcony on which she was standing, she could take off and fly into the vibrant sun.

Because, in that vast empire, she was the epicenter- the sun around which they would soon revolve. Alexandra Vasilyeva- the first queen of Kiespa without a king by her side. The mages on the train rushing towards the city, the nobles meandering towards the palace, coming from far and wide: they were all here for her. All around the country, something was stirring within the very heart of the nation: shutters flung open, scattering ethereal dust: old things remembered and new ones born. All of this, for the sake of her ascension. For the sake of a new era for the battered country.

Perhaps, she thought, with some darkness as an unusual gust of cold wind battered at her neatly arranged hair, she should feel bad for her endless euphoria. After all, as she was preparing for the most important day of her life, the country was already dripping with black in premature mourning for her father. The king was dying. Her father was dying. How ironic that a man who had feared nothing and nobody on the battlefield would be struck down by something as simple as disease. But, she reflected, she owed him nothing.

In a country where civil unrest was as common as snowstorm, and revolutions never started to brew, because they never stopped, the union under a single solid government for the first time in its bloodsoaked history was a miracle.There wasn’t a single person who didn’t hate the man who achieved it all, but there wasn’t a person who didn’t fear and admire him just as much. What they all feared more, however, was what would become of the nation once he would finally relinquish his grasp on them.

He wasn’t a good father: for as long as Alexandra could remember, he was cold and demanding, more a military commander than a father. He wasn’t a good king, either: he imposed draconian regulations on the magic population, allowed for the southern prince to run mad with power, and regulated almost every faucet of the civil society with an iron fist. And yet, somehow, he was a great king, the one who brought the warring nation into an age of prosperity and power.

And Alexandra was going to be greater- she vowed it. She would be the one to lift her country even further into the light, so they no longer had to look back into those dark days ever again. Standing on the precipice of the rest of her life, her fingers tightened around the balcony as her fervent conviction carried through her entire body, so violent, she was sure that she was going to break apart.

Then, suddenly, she was interrupted by a gentle tap on her shoulder and she whirled around with surprise, before registering that she had left her door wide open. The intruder was slightly taller than her, and only a few years older, even if the tired look in his eyes betrayed it. Misha Andersen, the youngest Prime Minister of Kiespa, her friend, and, from the look of admonishing concern in his eyes, her newfound mother. 

"You shouldn't go outside without a cloak in winter weather, your highness." He admonished lightly, burrowing deeper into his own fur-lined coat as if to prove a point. Vaguely, Alexandra registered that she was, indeed, quite cold, so she took it with gratitude.

“Your highness? Why so formal today, Misha?” She queried, turning away from her kingdom and to her old friend. "Just yesterday, you saw me half-delirious from lack of sleep: I think we can drop the titles."

Misha looked somewhat embarrassed, his soft brown eyes avoiding her gaze. "I'm here on behalf of your father, today." He murmured, stepping outside and joining her against the side of the balcony, looking out into the distance. Alexandra understood the meaning behind his words: he was not here as her friend, but as her father's prime minister, as a direct link to him. Even here, in the intimacy of her own rooms, his influence still lingered. Her jaw clenched reflexively, but she forced herself to remain cool-headed.

_ Such blatant displays of emotion are hardly befitting of a monarch,  _ a voice that sounded irritatingly like Sergei's rang through her mind. Instead, she forced the queenly mask onto her face. "What would he like?"

"Only for you to join him and your brother for tea before you go to meet the delegations." Alexandra resisted the urge to groan.

"Very well," She replied with a sigh, straightening the gleaming silver tiara resting on her head. "Let's go. We shouldn't keep him waiting."

Together, they set off towards the central castle, in companionable silence. There were few people who dwelled in the faraway Eastern wing, preferring to reside in the well-lit Western wing, favoured by the king. Alexandra, thought, relished the empty rooms, the secrets long-hidden in the aging wallpaper. Deeper into the castle, in the abandoned corners where the servants no longer bothered to dust, she had dedicated countless hours to the study of the portraits of former kings, glaring down ominously, as if sensing the betrayal of their successors- portraits of monarchs, each seeming untouchable in those golden frames, and each dead, mostly through some gruesome means. 

As they approached the west wing, though, as the carpeting grew thicker and cleaner, Alexandra could feel the tendrils of melancholy history fade from the air. Each generation of kings tried to forget their predecessor, and it showed in the way that the wall was beginning to show signs of wear under generations of redecoration, as though a new layer of wallpaper could wash away the layers of bloodstains underneath. Alexandra ran a gloved finger along the surface lightly, before shaking herself out of the dark thought of her own fate, instead turning to Misha in uncharacteristic mischief. 

“I wonder what my father wants now.” Alexandra mused out loud, her lip curling up in a playful smile. “Perhaps he would like me to prove myself by rescuing a princess from some dastardly evil?”

Misha laughed. “Well, if you wish, I wouldn’t object to being your princess. Maybe being locked up in a tower will save me from the paperwork your father seems to be keen to bury me under as his parting present.”

Alexandra gasped in mock surprise. “All this time, it was my father stealing the poor young-”

“-underpaid”

“-underpaid ministers away for a life of misery and toil. The horror!” Alexandra grinned, “But fear not, young princess, for I will vanquish this wicked king and free you from the chains of duty.”

“Oh dear,” Misha replied drily, “if only your highness would hurry up and live to her promise and become queen already. It’s getting rather stuffy up here in my tower.”

The two of them sobered- it seemed rather irreverent to joke about that, though they had been making the same quip for years, in the context that they were in- but a shared glance sent them both in peals of laughter than rang down the deadly silence of the halls. It was a few moments after that Alexandra realized that they had reached their destination and the moment faded away. 

It was ridiculous, really: given a few more months, he would have no power over her. And yet, here she was, reluctant to even enter the same room as her father. Misha paused beside her, falling silent as well as she paused in front of the opaque glass door, fingering the golden handle. Reaching out slowly, as though he were ready to withdraw rapidly, he laid his hand upon her’s. “I mean it, though. You can do anything, Alexa- even slay wicked kings- and I look forward to your reign.”

Alexandra laughed mirthlessly, but smiled at him nonetheless. “I hope,” She murmured, “That you will continue by my side, even after my father has passed on. I won’t hold you to it- you can step down, if you so wish, but I sincerely hope you do not.”

“If your highness will have me, then I’d be glad to do it.” Misha offered her one last smile. “Now, go. The Southern delegation will arrive soon, and I’ll alert you as soon as they do.”

Alexandra nodded, and, with a sigh of determination, pushed open the door. 

King Sergei was at the head of the table, silver hair slicked back immaculately above his simple black military uniform, completely still and serene despite the tense energy of the two men next to him. To his left, her brother, Nicholas, was a tightly bound coil of muscle and tension, displacing the golden crown around his brow by running a hand through his dark hair. Across from him, looking as though he wished to be anywhere else in the world, Andrei Malik, her fiancé, tapped his fingers nervously against his legs, much to the irritation of her brother, if the twitching of his eye was anything to go by. As soon as Nicholas caught glimpse of her, he leapt up, the tensely coiled bundle of muscle springing forth, completely dislodging his crown, which fell to the ground with an ignored clatter. 

“You’re late.” He said darkly, as though her tardiness were some grave offense. Her father, who had opened his mouth in greeting, let the words die on his lips as he watched her for her response.

_ Because,  _ Alexandra sighed internally,  _ Even breakfast had to be a test in this damn family.  _ Externally, she merely raised an eyebrow. “If you’ll pardon me, I was up late smoothing out some last wrinkles in the plan for the Trials. You know, the ones that I need to ascend the throne?” She added sarcastically. 

It was a cheap blow, not particularly clever, admittedly, but the reminder of the stolen throne elicited an immediate reaction from her brother. However, as the hours, or lack thereof, of sleep caught up with her, she couldn’t find it within herself to care. Nicholas didn’t reply, as he caught the way Sergei’s stern glare turned to him, but his brows furrowed in anger and Alexandra, so far beyond the realm of caring that she couldn’t even fathom it anymore, settled into her place beside Andrei and Sergei. 

Her father turned to her with some restrained mirth in his eyes, overshadowed by the frown on his lips. “As admirable as you may believe your work to be, Alexandra, complaining is rarely the mark of a good monarch. I trained you better than to slip up like that. I hope I wasn’t mistaken in thinking that I was handing over the reins to the country to a qualified ruler, not to a child unable to bear the responsibility of a single event such as the Trials. A rather petulant response to your brother’s complaint, shrugging your responsibility just because you feel as though you’re entitled to exemption to common courtesy. I expected more of you.” He turned to his eldest child before she could even open her mouth to respond, causing her to shut her mouth and grit her teeth with so much force that she was sure something would snap. 

She swallowed her anger, trying valiantly to maintain her cold composure as she placed her hands in her laps, clenching the napkin on her lap in a desperate attempt to keep herself from wrapping her hands around something else. There was no point in protesting; regardless of how hard she tried, there was no pleasing her father. She had long since stopped caring about what he thought-  _ he would die one day _ , she thought savagely- but there was a bitter sting at being constantly criticized that made Alexandra press her lips together in distaste.

_ Thank god he sees more flaws with Nicholas _ , she thought, her lip twisting up in a cruel smirk as she  watched the way her father tore into him, before resettling her face into a calm mask again. Some of the anger must have still lingered on her face, however, as Andrei sent her a comforting smile and a conspiratorial wink. Alexandra, rolling her eyes, was tempted to brush him off, to remind herself, and him, that she didn’t need the comfort of anyone else, but she couldn’t help the small smile that grew on her face.

There was something fundamentally wrong about rebuking somebody who looked at her earnestly, and who was so pathetic in the face of her family. Indeed, at that moment, Sergei’s sharp gaze moved for a second off of his son’s face onto Andrei’s, causing the man to stiffen up with apprehension. 

It was no secret that the king wasn’t fond of his future son-in-law. Nobody in the family was happy when Alexandra chose the Duke of Irynden to be the future Prince Consort- the only reason that she could muster up was that he was, at the very most, the least of the evils she had to choose from. Apparently, regardless of how much she did to prove herself, the kingdom of Kiespa would never allow a woman to rule without a man by her side. Alexandra once hated Andrei, and everything he represented, but as time wore on, his unceasingly sunny nature grew on her. The same could not be said of the rest of her family, who treated him with cold politeness if anything

The rest of the morning was slightly less eventful, and, despite the tension that still hung over the table, the conversation never strayed to anything more controversial than the strange burst of cold weather that had been dogging the country. Eventually, the weak rays of early sunlight grew in strength, jerking Alexandra out of her thoughts, and the passage of time was creeping upon her. She looked to the king, prepared to excuse herself when he suddenly turned away from his conversation with Nicholas, desperately grabbing a napkin from the table. 

The three of them sat in awkward silence, only broken by the shuddering coughs that consumed the king. When he turned around again, he looked perfectly serene, but the crimson splattering against the fabric in his hand belied his condition. 

She should have found it within herself to care, Alexandra thought idly, but instead, she fixed him with a steely gaze, her grey eyes devoid of emotion. “The Southern delegation due to arrive at any moment,” she reminded him, “If I may be excused, I must go to greet them. It wouldn’t do to keep your brother waiting.”

As if summoned by her words, Misha appeared beyond the doorway, seemingly from nowhere. Sergei seemed, if anything, amused and somewhat impressed at her casual dismissal of his condition. “Go.” He nodded at Misha, who bowed slightly in acknowledgement. “You’re right about Peter.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement, hasty to escape the tension that was reaching its boiling point in that room. Andrei, catching the anger in Nicholas’ gaze and the serene way Leon was ignoring him, made his excuses and hastily followed after her. As soon as she exited the room, she slumped down and sighed. “One more second in that room, and I don’t know what I would have done.” She muttered darkly, casting a glare back at the closed door.

Andrei nodded fervently, his eyes glazed over. Misha cast a look between the two of them, a slow, amused smile spreading on his face. “Looks like I came just in time.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes. “He’s grown soft in his old age, at least. I’m still of the belief that you’re his preferred child, despite not being his actual child.” She replied grimly, recalling the way her father pushed her to propose to him instead of Andrei, though, given her present company, she kept that memory to herself.  

“Well,” Misha said, still somewhat amused, “Perhaps you’ll find the members of the Southern delegation more welcoming.”

Alexandra resisted the urge to groan, as she thought of the particular members that made up that delegation. One face, in particular, popped into her mind. Still, she sighed and accepted her fate. “You kid,” she replied, “But I honestly would rather face ten of my uncle and Count Orlov than sit through another minute at that table.”

At that, they stopped in front of a door. “Here’s your chance to do so, though I’m afraid I could only scrounge up one of each,” Misha teased, gently pushing her towards the door. “We’ll have to part ways here, I’m afraid.”

Alexandra sighed, her hand resting on top of the knob, unwilling to turn it. “I would rather face the entirety of the Helvegredian army again than do this.” She muttered under her breath, but pushed the sturdy wood forward. As soon as she stepped into the light that poured from the high windows, all eyes turned onto her and, for a second, she briefly registered the sheer  _ number  _ of Southern delegates.  

Then, all of a sudden, she found herself being swept from the ground. For a second, her mind entered panic mode and she struck out precisely at her assailant, who dropped her with a groan of pain. Then, her mind cleared and she registered the curly haired noble, in her unusual coat of powder blue, in front of her. Rubbing her jaw, Camila Arlington nonetheless wore a cocky grin on her lips and an affectionate look in her unusual golden gaze as she bowed. “Is that any way to greet an old friend, princess?”

“Tch.” Alexandra scoffed, though she couldn’t help the smile blooming at her lips, regardless of the nobles staring at her and the few bold enough to whisper conspiratorially. “Is that any way to greet a princess?”

“You can’t blame me,” Camila replied teasingly, “It isn’t my fault that Kiespans are so stuffy.”

“Or maybe you Bellwyians are too forward.” She shot back, but stepped forward and wrapped her old friend in a long hug. “I’ve missed you, Mila.”

“You too, darling.” Mila responded in kind, her smile turning genuine. “Though I hate to have to campaign for a spot on your uncle’s delegation just to see you.”

“And I hate to see you a part of my uncle’s delegation. Still, I suppose some evils are unavoidable. Like-” Her eyes caught a solitary figure standing slightly away from the crowd and she winced. Camila tilted her head in confusion, her eyes following Alexandra’s gaze, suddenly lighting with mischief. 

“Don’t let me stop you from talking to your dear friend, princess.” She laughed merrily. Alexandra wondered darkly at how much more enjoyment she would get out of her own inevitable suffering. “I’ll take leave of you now.”

With a final flourish, she bowed over Alexandra’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it and, before she could protest, disappeared into the crowd. Left alone, Alexandra bit back a curse as she met the gaze of the person she least wanted to see. 

Ilya Orlov, standing as stiffly as a mannequin, his arm bound in a white sling across his chest. Alexandra swallowed a wave of feelings- anger, fondness, sorrow, regret- and affixed a queenly mask on her face as she made her way to the black-clad nobleman. “Lord Orlov.” She greeted coldly, extending her right hand and watching as he glared at her, forced to awkwardly take it with his own, as his left was bound up, and bow. “Welcome to Rossenay.”

“Thank you, your highness.” He replied with similar ice in his voice, his cold eyes flickering over her. “My father sends his regrets that he could not make it.” From the tone of his voice, it was clear that he was regretting it as well. Now that the necessary pleasantries were out of the way, Ilya stared stonily ahead, as still as a statue and twice as cold. 

Alexandra paused, caught between the desire to say something, and the need to stay silent in a room full of southern delegates. She was saved from making her decision by the arrival of Prince Peter. The leader of the South was nowhere near as impressive as his northern counterpart, his half-brother: shorter in stature, and more portly than muscular, he didn’t look nearly as deadly as the king. Still, Alexandra watched warily as his oily black eyes flitted across the room with thinly disguised ambition. As slimy and unworthy of attention he seemed, there was a reason why the crowd was parting for him. As part of the royal family, she was supposed to turn a blind eye to what was happening under his jurisdiction, but that hardly stopped her from hearing rumours, of prison camps and executions, of torture and blackmail. She had once asked Sergei why they tolerated his behaviour in the Southern Kingdoms, and his words were coming back to her:  _ No matter how we prove ourselves, Alexandra, that man will always have a stake in the throne that we will never. He cannot be allowed free rein.  _

This man was her true competitor to the throne, more so than Nicholas could ever be. The way the nobles automatically deferred to him, the way they stepped backwards in fear whenever he approached: no matter how underwhelming he looked, this man was dangerous. He stopped in front of her, only a few inches taller: “Your highness.” He inclined his head with a tiny twitch of his mouth.  

“Uncle.” She replied cordially, dropping into a curtsy with a well-hidden grimace. Whatever her opinions on the man, he was still her superior until she ascended. “Welcome back to Rossenay.”

He smiled thinly, tilting his head in acknowledgement, but didn’t offer her the courtesy to bow back. Her teeth grit reflexively, but she forced herself to relax. No point in giving him the satisfaction of knowing that he got to her. His eyes swept around the room once more. “I thank you, on behalf of the Southern delegation, for your hospitality, which I know to be rather impressive in number. We do pride ourselves on our particular devotion and loyalty to a single monarch. I rather admire that ability to jump at the call of duty and devotion whenever and wherever it is needed.” His dark eyes bore into hers. A challenge, if she ever heard one:  _ Look how many supporters I have.  _ Alexandra fixed her face into one that seemed superficially like that of a perfect hostess.

“A pity, then, that I cannot claim the same for the North. You see, we tend towards avoiding such ostentatious displays, for the distaste of being viewed as insecure. I applaud you for having no such reservations and bringing such a large delegation with you.” Alexandra smiled pleasantly. “I do hope that my Trials live up to this crowd’s expectations.”

Peter’s lips curled up dismissively. “Be that as it may, I could hardly deny my people what they want. Such  _ loyal  _ subjects… how am I to deny them if they desire to see their rightful monarch crowned?”   


“And their  _ rightful  _ monarch, they shall see.” Alexandra retrorted, “After all, though the North and South are not one and the same, it does the country well to remember that we are unified under one true crown.”

The smile on Peter’s face turned sour quickly. “Let us do away with these games and speak plainly.”

Alexandra’s grin became sharper, as she said, “Why, I was not playing any games but rather returning the courtesies that you have offered me, your highness. But speak plainly if you must, and I’ll respond in kind.”

Peter leaned in close, anger written across his features. “It would do you well not to forget the might of the Southern Kingdom, nor the favour I hold with those who do not believe that the daughter of a  _ natural  _ usurper should ascend. Those numbers are much greater than you think. It would be wise  _ not  _ to forget that these halls have been carved through bloodshed.”

Though she felt her blood run cold with the unbridled threat in those words, Alexandra laughed charmingly, as if he told a joke. “Why, Uncle!” She smiled broadly, “How can I forget the illustrious history of my nation when it is that thirst for blood that runs through  _ my  _ veins?  _ You  _ would do well to remember that I am not only the daughter of the king- I am the daughter of the greatest military commander in Kiespan history, and that I’ve seen more conflict in my short life that you have in your’s.” 

Peter returned the laugh in kind. “It is always a pleasure, Alexandra,” he replied, though his eyes were as cold and angry as she had ever seen. 

“The pleasure is all mine.” Alexandra smiled angelically. “But I must be going, if I am to show your crowd of loyal subjects the attention they deserve.”

With that, she turned her back on him before he could walk away, silent seething at the nerve of that man. As she whipped around, searching in the sea of unfamiliar faces for anyone she had yet to greet, she almost ran headfirst into Andrei, who held his arm out, bracing himself. “Oh!” She gathered herself before she could yelp, but there was nothing she could do to make the noise that came out of her mouth sound dignified. 

“You okay?” He asked searchingly, putting a hand out to steady her. “I saw-”

“-My dear uncle?” She asked drily. “Don’t worry about me, Andrei. I’ll have to learn how to deal with him sooner or later.” Shaking her head to clear it of the clouds of concern that had gathered after their conversation- likely what Peter had wanted to instill- she turned to her fiancé with a playful tilt to her head. “What about you? It isn’t too late to back down and flee from this family, you know.”

Andrei laughed, taking her hand in his own. “Well, it’s certainly more interesting that Irynden, though I miss Misha.” At the strange look that Alexandra sent him, her eyes darting to the Prime Minister on the opposite side of the room, he hastened to add, “My dog. I named him after our Misha. He has a cat named after me.”

“My goodness,” she raised her eyebrows, “Sometimes it’s strange to think about how much I still don’t know about you.”

“Well,” he smiled, taking her hand as they stared out at the intermingling crowd. “We have the rest of our lives to learn.”

Blushing slightly, as though the sappiness of his statement had affected her sensibilities, she released him after a few seconds. “Anyways,” she smirked, the tinge of rosiness still staining her skin, “I would have thought Misha was the more feline one between the two of you. After all, I don’t recall you being the one to fall asleep in crucial documents.”

“What is this about sleeping on crucial documents?” Misha asked from behind them, quirking an eyebrow up at them suspiciously. “You two aren’t gossiping, are you? The candidates should be arriving any minute.”

Alexandra rolled her eyes fondly, as the analogy of the fussing mother returned to mind. “I’ve made my rounds already, Misha, don’t worry.”

“Excellent timing, then,” He checked his watch. “As the candidates of the Trial should be arriving any minute. We should leave now, if we don’t want to keep them waiting too long.”

“Lead the way.” She turned to Andrei, “Would you be able to wrangle the crowd that my uncle has scrounge up? They should disperse soon after I leave. Hopefully.” She added at the end, uneasily eyeing the way that the gaggle of nobles were still milling around. 

Andrei looked out into the room with some uncertainty in his eyes, but he nodded determinedly anyways. “I’ve got it. Now, go.” 

With a final smile, Alexandra nodded towards the people closest to her, making a beeline for the door, Misha close by her side. When they finally made it out, she let out a breath. “At least on a battlefield, your enemies are clear in their intention to kill you.” She commented wryly. 

Misha’s lips twitched. “You’d have a far easier time with the way this group is dressed, though.”

Alexandra laughed, feeling some of the tension melt from her shoulders. “What do you think of the delegates this year? I’m afraid that I’ve spent more time overseeing that actual mechanics of the events, so I haven’t had the chance to look over them.”

There was a slight lull as Misha paused, frowning, to think. “There’s the matter of one of Duke Rykiel’s candidates- A half-Alverdinian, I think. I don’t think it’ll be to great of an issue, but… you know that there’s still that underlying attitude better than I could.”

“Ah.” Alexandra paused in her steps. “If they take objection to her, then I hope they’ll find the ability to recognize that I, too, am half-Alverdinian. It’s not a fact that well hidden.”

“I know.” Misha replied placatingly, though his eyes turned stormy and thoughtful, a dark current underlining his voice when he spoke again. “But it’s different for commoners.”

A silence fell between the two of them again. “And what of our other wayward Witch?”

Misha sighed. “Duchess Bellamy’s choices… are interesting. There’s no doubt that they’re talented but-” he hesitated again. “-how can I put this? They’re all… rather like her.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, exactly what it sounds like. Whether it is their aptitude or their birth, it strikes me as odd that so many of them share similarities with the circumstances of her own life. It could be a coincidence but-”

“-knowing Valentine, it isn’t.” Alexandra rubbed her temples. The red-eyed Witch always struck her as somewhat unsettling, though she had always kept that opinion to herself. Though her father probably had strong opinions about her, but to speak out against a member of his council was to make a statement against him. One that he certainly wouldn’t appreciate. “And the Trials are supposed to be marketed as free and open to all, so all we can do is hope that her delegates prove themselves incapable and nobody else catches onto the trend. With any luck, it should pass by without any trouble.”

They stopped in front of the doors of the Grand Hall. Alexandra stopped in front of the sturdy wooden doors, resting her hand on the smooth surface, her breathing suddenly growing erratic. Beyond the threshold, she could hear the quiet murmuring hum of conversation. The quiet electric buzz of her future, beckoning her towards them. Above the rush of her blood, she could make out the thrumming of her heart, beating in her ribs, hard enough to send her stomach buzzing in excitement. With a final excited glance towards Misha, Alexandra pushed open the doors and, with the sunlight dancing off of her glinting eyes, waltzed into her future. 


End file.
